


The Valley

by kirsant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirsant/pseuds/kirsant
Summary: Fed up with a bleak existence in post-war Britain, Harry departs for Stardew Valley in search of peace. But among the pines and quirky villagers, a shadow of an evil corporation is looming. And it will stop at nothing to get what it wants. Inspired by a reddit prompt.





	The Valley

The letter was delivered by post, and this was odd. 

This was odd because Harry’s letters never came by post. No, they arrived by owl and floo, by magic and providence, but never by something as banal as a postman. Harry twirled the letter in his hands. 

“Who brought this here, again?” he asked the auror at the door. 

“The postman, sir,” answered Bowlish. Bowlish was a young lad in his twenties, fresh out of Hogwarts. He wasn’t particularly bright, but with the heavy toll of two wars weighing down on Britain’s shoulders, Harry didn’t have much choice when it came to recruitment. It was either Bowlish or one of the Goyle kin. 

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek. “You mean, the mail-cart?” he finally asked, referring to the magical monstrosity that trolled the Ministry’s halls, dispensing letters left and right with the power and accuracy of a WWII submachine gun. 

“No, sir,” answered Bowlish. “The postman. I dare say he completed his job with flourish, although the poor chap was rather shocked at first.”

“He was shocked? Why was he shocked?”

“Well, he was a muggle, sir.”

Harry slowly counted to five in his head. Then, he counted to twenty, just in case. 

“You let a muggle,” he began, slowly, trying not to grind his teeth (Hermione would notice) together, “here, into the Ministry of Magic, just to deliver a letter?”

“Well, it was a letter for you, sir,” Bowlish chipperly answered, like that explained everything. “Oh, don’t worry. We checked him for dark magic an’ spells an’ all, an’ obliviated him right soon after. The look on his face, sir, you can’t imagine! The lads and I laughed ourselves silly, why, Diggens nearly pissed ‘imself–”

Feeling a migraine coming on, Harry glanced out the window, letting Bowlish’s babbling wash over his ears. It wasn’t even ten in the morning, and his underlings had already violated exactly one hundred seventy-two...no, scratch that, one hundred and seventy-three laws (Hermione had instituted a new one just two days ago), and now he had to deal with the consequences. Idly, more in order to refrain from murdering his subordinate on the spot than anything else, Harry cut open the envelope and unfolded the letter, quickly scanning it with his eyes. 

Bowlish was still talking when Harry jumped and threw a cloak over his shoulders. 

“Sir?” Bowlish snapped to attention. If there was anything the new aurors were good at, it was pomp and ceremony. “Headed out, sir? Should I alert the Minister?”

“No,” answered Harry curtly. 

“Then, an escort, perhaps?”

“No.”

“I must remind that you have a meeting with the Cabinet at one, with Mr. Malfoy at two-thirty, and with the Minister at three.”

“I will be making none of those,” said Harry, wrapping a scarf about his shoulders. 

“But, sir,” Bowlish looked confused, “where are you headed?”

“Vacation,” answered Harry, taking out his wand. “I’m headed on vacation.”

And with a flurry, he disappeared, leaving Bowlish blinking in apparent confusion at the abrupt departure of his boss. 

. . . .

The train came to full stop, steam hissing into frigid winter air. Harry hopped off, stepping carefully on the ice-clad platform. Stardew Valley, read the sign above. Population, 63.

Harry thought that was a nice number. 63. Not too small, but not a hundred either. It was somewhere right in middle, perfectly positioned, perfectly balanced, like all things should be. 

There hadn’t been much balance in Harry’s life lately. Actually – there hadn’t been any balance at all, ever, not when he was a hungry kid, huddled in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs, nor when he was at Hogwarts, seemingly forever chased by things that wanted to kill him. 

That’s not saying there hadn’t been any good times. There had been. Hogwarts had been a dream. A magical castle, where, for the first time in his life, he had made real friends. And those friends had stuck with him through the most terrible and darkest of times, and then, when the war was finally over, they had all hugged, delighted that they were still breathing. That they were alive. Believing that the future would be better, somehow. Brighter, for all. 

And, for a while, it had been. Harry had married Ginny, and the several years that followed were filled with happiness and light. They had laughed and cried, and even considered making a baby together. It was the best time of his life. 

And then came the pox. 

Voldemort’s failsafe. Activated in the event of his death. Just when Britain’s magical society had finally believed the worst to be over – when the last Death Eater had been locked away – it came, and it burned through young and old, through men, women, and children, taking life after life after life…

Ginny had passed. Harry buried her body on a plot of land, just behind the small house they had purchased. There were pines there. Ginny had always liked them. 

Two weeks later, Malfoy found a cure. He always had been good at potions. But that didn’t matter, because Ginny was gone, and Harry hated Malfoy even more now, because if he’d found the cure just a little bit earlier, then Ginny would still be alive. But he had not, and Ginny was gone. That’s just how life is, sometimes. 

Angry, lost, and confused, Harry threw himself into the job. He worked day and night, all hours, burning himself just as well as the pox would have. In a year, he lost three stone. One month later, Hermione forced to him to take a break. 

When Harry returned to the Auror’s office, his zeal was gone. He drifted through the days, like a ship with no berth. There was nothing to hope for. There was nothing to dream. 

Until this letter. This place. 

Harry took a deep breath, the air crisp and fresh, stinging and free – there wasn’t air like this in London.

“Let’s go see the farm,” he said to himself, and set down the road among the snow-laden pines. 

. . . . 

It turned out, winters in Stardew were a sleepy affair. There wasn’t much to do, but that wasn’t a bad thing. Harry quickly found common ground with the locals, who tended to congregate in a cozy establishment called ‘The Stardrop Saloon’ in the evening. They were a quirky lot. So far, Harry had befriended an old fisherman named Willy, who had gifted him a rod and was teaching him how to fish; a bubbly blond girl called Haley, who staunchly reminded him of Lavender; and a middle-aged interracial couple, who had baffled him on their first meeting, asking whether a tomato was a fruit or a vegetable. 

Vegetable, Harry had answered after some time, because no matter what the scientific classification was, no one put tomatoes in their fruit salad and called it a ‘fruit salad’ anymore. And if they did, they were probably french, and so their opinion didn’t matter anyway. Upon hearing his reasoning, the woman – Robin – had laughed uproariously and given him a roguish wink, telling him he was always welcome in their home. 

They were kind people, these folk. Some of them were maybe withdrawn, others burdened by heavy secrets, but everyone had – and Harry had a little trouble putting this into words – but everyone had this spark inside them, something that shined, making them seem unique and special and so vibrantly alive. 

Folk weren’t like that in the city. There, everyone was obsessed over themselves, their own problem and burdens, rushing to and fro, glimmering smartphones in their hands, and it was always washed out in a haze of depressed urban cognizance. 

Well, there was nothing depressing about Stardew Valley. The air was crisp and smelled of pine, the people always had some time to chat, and the days passed by in a leisurely grace that Harry was still trying to get accustomed to. 

There were also many interesting things to discover. Like, what could be hidden under the snow, or what sort of monsters lurked in the mine, or what kind of wizard lived in the tower beyond the lake which was to the west of Marnie’s farm.

Harry had heard about the wizard just yesterday, when he was sipping on a glass of mulled wine at the Stardrop Saloon, and it had instantly piqued his interest. Not because he actually wanted to meet the wizard. No, it was because Harry didn’t want to be found. He had left London without telling a soul, and, frankly, he wasn’t ready for anyone to find him. 

So the next day, Harry laced up his winter boots, put on an old Weasley sweater, a coat, and then set off to find the mysterious wizard. 

Snow was falling gently. It twirled around, a tango of tiny dancers. Harry walked, listening to the sound of silence and the snow, and he was suddenly taken far away, to another winter day, an evening when he had been walking with Hermione along the cobblestone path of Godric’s Hollow, and there had been almost no uncertainty and no hope, but only darkness ahead. 

His thoughts turned heavy and sad, and its uncertain where this would have led, if a shrill shriek hadn’t pierced the air, startling him back reality. 

“Help! Somebody...somebody, help, please!”

The voice was unfamiliar, but that didn’t give him pause. Harry rushed forward, snow crunching audibly under his feet as he sprinted out of the forest and out to the lake by Marnie’s farm. There, a pretty girl with flaming hair was jumping up and down in the snow, desperately gesticulating at some machine that was angrily buzzing above her. 

“Help!” she yelled, spotting Harry. “It’s a JoJo-drone! It’s stealing my tools!”

The Jojo-drone hissed and swatted lower, aiming for the aforementioned tools that the girl was trying to guard. Harry’s instincts kicked in automatically. Still on the run, he leaned down and picked up a handful snow, packing it into a tight ball. Then, reaching for his wand with his other hand, he chucked the snowball as hard as he could, hastily whispering a spell under his breath. The drone reacted instantly, tilting up in a sharp evasive maneuver, but it was too late. Guided by magic, Harry’s projectile smacked right into one of the motors, causing it to tilt to the side. A sharp mechanical whirr escaped the drone and sparks started to fly out of its engine. Its operators were obviously trying to stabilize the machine, but the damage was too great, and after a series of wild zigzags through the air, the drone crashed into the lake, disappearing under its icy waters. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” the girl turned to Harry, ecstatically clapping her hands. “Oh, you must be a magician, you arrived just in time!”

“Err, just in the right place, I guess,” Harry sheepishly said, hiding his wand. “What was that thing?”

“You don’t know?” The girl frowned, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. “A JoJo-drone. They usually use them for surveillance, but they harass us when they think they can get away with it.”

“A JoJo...drone?” Harry asked with a pause. 

“Yes...JoJo...you know, like the corporation?” The girl looked at him with her wide, caramel eyes and then her eyebrows rose and she exclaimed, “Oh, you must be the new guy in town! Of course you don’t know! And we haven’t met! I’m Leah!” She stuck out her hand brusquely. 

“Harry,” he said, shaking her hand. She had a firm grip. “So these JoJo people were trying to steal your tools?”

“Yeah,” Leah said, pointing to the ground, where a set of brushes was scattered amidst a bag and some paint tubes. “I’m an artist. I come here to paint sometimes, but those bastards–” she shook her fist at the sky “–saw me and tried to take advantage. And it would have worked, too, if you hadn’t come! Let me repay you–”

“Oh that’s not necessary–” Harry began, but Leah waved her hands, shutting him down. 

“Hot chocolate!” she exclaimed. “I make the best hot chocolate this side of the Bann! You must – you absolutely must – have a cup!”

Harry glanced towards the sun, which was inching towards its zenith. “I was actually going to see the wizard…” he said, trailing off, but Leah exclaimed, “That’s perfect! You’ll be coming back late then, you’ll be cold, and some hot chocolate will be just the thing you’ll need! Promise me!” She continued to say, leaning down to collect her things, “promise me you’ll come! I live near, in the cabin just south of Marnie’s farm! You can’t miss it, it’s right on the way to town! Promise!”

Unable to withstand the sudden barrage, Harry unwillingly smiled and promptly capitulated. “I promise.” 

“That’s good then!” Leah straightened, and Harry was suddenly struck by how much she looked like Ginny. “I’ll be waiting. Adieu!”

“Bye,” Harry said, waving at her retreating form. He watched her gradually disappear into the snow, and then turned back east, looking at the tower that he could see looming in the distance. 

It was time to see just who this wizard was. 

. . . .

The wind picked up soon after that, obscuring the tower in flurries of snow. When Harry stumbled onto it nearly two hours later, it appeared almost out of nowhere, as if it had been concealed with a spell. 

Which was entirely possible, but that wasn’t Harry’s primary concern at the moment. 

No, his eyes were glued to the figure sitting on the tower’s steps. A man, in flowing robes, with a long, dazzling beard, his head bend low against the wind. It can’t be, thought Harry, his heart skipping a beat. Despite the fatigue straining his limbs, he picked up his speed and plowed into the deep snow ahead. It can’t be, he’s dead. I watched him die.

But the posture, the clothes...they were so familiar, *too* familiar, and Harry’s heartbeat was thundering in his ears when he rushed up to the figure and gasped:

“Dumbledore?!”

The figure moved. 

Of course, it wasn’t Dumbledore. Taking in deep, heaving breaths, Harry suddenly felt very silly. Dumbledore was dead, and this was just an old man with a long beard, and that made sense, because it isn’t uncommon for old men to grow long beards. 

The man lifted his head, squinting his eyes against the distant sun, and then smiled. “Harry Potter,” he said in a wheezing, but friendly voice, “I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time. Come in! Come in, and we will talk.”

Still feeling embarrassed from his foolish mistake, Harry watched the man slowly rise and then followed him up the steps, wondering what sort of mystery he had stumbled onto...again. 

. . . . 

“I seem to be at a disadvantage,” Harry said ten minutes later, when the kettle was cheerily boiling on the stove, and the coldness of winter had evaporated between the walls of this small, yet cozy place. 

“Marnecus!” the wizard introduced himself. “But my friends call me Marny!”

“We haven’t...met before, have we?” asked Harry. There something so very familiar in the wizard’s features, but he was yet to put his finger on it. 

“No,” Marnecus chuckled. “But you have met my sister!”

“Your sister?”

“She’s a professor at Hogwarts!” the old man proclaimed in that way people do when they are incredibly proud of someone. Harry felt the answer click in his brain. “You’re Trelawny’s brother! I mean, uh, Professor Trelawny’s.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” Marnecus waved his hands. “Just call her Sybill. Or Syb. Tea?”

Harry nodded. 

“You mentioned you were waiting for me,” he said some time later, when the tea had been poured and the biscuits set. Harry cautiously took one and waited. He liked biscuits, but Hagrid’s cooking had taught him early on that putting blind trust in other people’s culinary skills was much too Gryffindor even for him.

Something about bravery and foolishness and all that.

“Syb and I share the gift,” Marnecus explained, taking a biscuit of his own. He promptly bit into it and when he didn’t cry out in sudden pain, Harry followed suit. “But I retain the memories of my prophecies, and she does not. I don’t know which one of us that favors, but in your case, I saw you coming in our time of need.”

“Your time...of need?” Harry asked with a sudden frown. He was already disliking where this conversation was going. He didn’t come here to be a hero. He came to forget. 

“I know you came here to forget,” said Marnecus, nearly making Harry leap out of his chair. The man wasn’t a legilimens, was he? But the sight of the old wizard, daintly sipping tea with biscuits crumbs in his beard was so inoffensive, that Harry relaxed. “But you’re already involved, whether you like it or not.”

“Involved..?” Harry began, and then sighed with exasperation. “The drone.”

“The JoJo-drone, indeed. Leah’s not a rich girl, and losing the tools of her trade would have been a big hit to her. She might not have recovered, forcing her to sell the land.”

“And that’s what these...JoJo people want?” asked Harry. “The land?”

Marnecus nodded. “They’ve been trying to buy out the village for some time, but with little luck. When they realized their money wasn’t getting the job done, they started resorting to threats. Now, they’re directly attacking folk. I fear the situation will only escalate from this point on.”

Harry looked down, at the bright teapot and the cheery plates with golden biscuits placed in concentric circles. “I have enough battles to haunt me,” he said quietly. “I don’t need a new one.”

Marnecus looked at him for some time. “Well, I won’t push,” the old man said finally, and then cocked his head and ruffled up, like a sparrow. “Now, why don’t you tell me about Hogsmeade? It’s been years since I’ve been there. Is Honeydukes still up? And that dame – Madam Rosmerta – oh, the knockers on her, pardon my forwardness! And…”

Marnecus talked on, asking questions that Harry was happy to recall the answers to. Gradually, he felt himself growing more relaxed and responding swiftly, telling Marny about dragons and snitches and potions brewed in a girl’s lavatory. The old man was the perfect audience, listening raptly, slapping his knees with the palms of his hands as he laughed at Harry’s stories. 

Harry felt his own mouth curve up into a smile on several occasions, and was dejected when he realized it was time to go. 

“Remember to stop by Leah’s!” Marny shouted out the door, when Harry, bundled up against the cold night, strode into the darkness. “Just follow the light! It’ll lead you right to hers!”

“Alright!” yelled Harry back, and then turned away, facing the wind and the snow. Just a few feet ahead of him, a small magical firefly – Marny’s creation – hovered steadily, ready to take him back to town. 

For some reason, that felt like going home.


End file.
